Thursday's Child
by Liliththestormgoddess
Summary: From orphan, to carnie, to killer, to Avenger. Some journeys are never through, and most journeys are never easy. Clint Barton has known his journey would never be easy since he was a small child.
1. Chapter 1

Thursday's Child

by Liliththestormgoddess

**Summary**: From orphan, to carnie, to killer, to Avenger. Some journeys are never through.

**Rating**: T for violence (non-graphic), strong language, underage smoking/drinking, and mentions of abuse.

**A/N**: If I was making a Hawkeye movie, this is how it would go. Most of this is headcanon, as I don't read the comic books. This follows Clint as a boy until the events of the movie. Will feature his employment with SHIELD and his relationship with Natasha.

As a note, there is a small section before each chapter, in italics. These are 'excerpts'; pieces that occur before or after the chapter, and either have something to do with the chapter, or nothing at all. They're mainly pieces that I wanted to turn into chapters, but just didn't have enough material.

Also, some of the chapters are short; some are longer. This one is definitely one of the shortest. It varied depending on the scene I was writing. Some chapters are used more for linking the story along. And because of that and the fact that this story is complete, I will try and post chapters as often as I can.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers, or the nursery rhyme.

* * *

_Monday's child is fair of face,_

_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_

_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_

_Thursday's child has far to go,_

_Friday's child is loving and giving,_

_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_

_But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day_

_Is bonny and blithe and good and gay._

* * *

"_Hawkeye!" Rogers shouted in surprise. "Drop him!"_

_Barton ignored the order, instead keeping the man pinned up against the wall. "You like beating on your son, huh?" He growled in his face. _

"_Barton!"_

"_You think I don't know what those marks are from? Do you think it makes you a bigger man? Huh?" He held the squirming man tighter. "Well?" For a few more seconds he held on, then let go, and the man dropped to the ground, gasping for air. Barton shot Rogers a furious look. "He's all yours."_

* * *

_Iowa_

"Let's go, hurry!" Yelled Barney to his younger brother as they raced through the cornfield. He cast a quick glance back to make sure Clint was following and that their father wasn't.

Clint puffed breathlessly but urged his legs to move faster. The terrible angry yells coming from the trailer they just left spurred him forwards. He could hear something smash and the brothers put on an extra burst of speed. Soon, they reached the outer limits of the forest.

Barney grabbed the lowest hanging branch without slowing down and used his momentum to swing upwards. The nimble six-year-old leaned down and grabbed Clint's hand and hauled him up. Together they climbed high into the tree, where they were safe and could see everything, including the trailer.

Barney wrapped an arm around his sobbing four-year-old brother and pulled him close. "S'okay, Clint. I'll watch out for you. We'll make it out of this." They were heavy words for such a young boy but they weren't made lightly. Distantly, they heard the higher-pitched screams and more things break. Clint buried his head in his brother's shoulder.

They waited and watched for their father to leave. They weren't disappointed. They watched as the trailer door slammed open and he stumbled out, cursing loudly and profanely. He walked right into the door of his truck and jammed the keys several times in the door before he found the hole. Then he jumped in, spun the wheels and finally skidded away.

Silently and somberly, the brothers descended from the tree and made the trek back. The door was ajar. Barney steeled himself for what he was going to find.

Dishes were smashed all over the floor. Several chairs had been overturned and one was in pieces. The lamp lay next to the wall, shattered. The door to their parents' room was shut, but Barney could hear his mother sobbing.

He righted two chairs and Clint sat in one of them. "Hungry?" Barney asked, and Clint nodded.

Barney opened up the fridge and stared at the emptiness. The pantry held only several empty booze bottles. In the bread box he found the end-piece of a loaf of bread and beside it, some butter. So he buttered the piece and gave it to his brother, and watched him eat it even as his own stomach grumbled fiercely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings**: Language, mentions of abuse.

**A/N**: Here's the next chapter. This story is complete, so I will try and post when I can. Hope you enjoy, and please review!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

* * *

_Clint found himself once again in Las Vegas. He never really made a conscious decision to go there, but somehow he always ended up on a plane to Nevada. _

_Perhaps it was the lights; thousands and thousands of retina-searing colours, smells and sounds that attacked your senses as you walked down the streets. Maybe it was the flurry of movement; no one ever sat still and the streets were never empty, even in the odd hours of the morning. Or maybe it was his appreciation for any stage performer, and his innate desire to see every show playing in Vegas. _

* * *

_Iowa_

Barney and Clint were sharing the leftover chips when the cruiser pulled up to their trailer. They shared a wide-eyed look. Barney said, "Don't say anything." Clint nodded furiously.

Two officers exited the car and knocked on the door, but the brothers ignored them. They knocked again, and the man called out, "Charles, Clinton, please open the door."

Clint looked fearfully at his brother, but Barney was looking at the door.

The woman spoke up, softer than her counterpart. "Honey, please open up."

Barney hesitated for a moment, but finally opened the door an inch. He said, "My parents are sleeping. Can you come back later?" It was the standard lie their father had drilled in.

The officers shared a glance before the woman looked away. The man said, a little forcefully, "We need to come in, son."

Barney clenched his fists but stepped back, simultaneously stepping in front of Clint. The officers looked around their home and then took in the two malnourished boys.

The woman bit her lip, then knelt down so she was at their eye level. "Sweetie," she called to Clint, offering him a smile. "It's okay. No one's in trouble here."

She called him sweetie, like his mom did. Or used to. She had stopped calling him that a long time ago; she'd stopped talking to him a long time ago. Clint decided she had a funny looking mouth but that she was nice enough. He stepped around Barney but clung to his hand.

"Sweetie, we have some bad news," the lady began. Her smile slipped away. "Your mom and dad were in a car accident."

Barney gripped Clint's hand tighter. It hurt.

"I'm sorry, honey. But they won't be coming home. Ever."

"We're going to take you to the state orphanage, where you'll be taken care of," the man said.

Clint wrinkled his nose and looked at Barney. Barney looked scared, but Clint didn't understand why. He tugged on his brother's hand. "Barney, I'm hungry."

"We'll get you both burgers, alright?" The nice lady said.

Clint smiled. "Yeah. A burger."

The officers found two duffel bags and helped the boys to pack their things. Clint kept asking why they were moving, and shouldn't they wait for dad to get home? Wouldn't he be angry? Barney just shook his head and told him to grab his things.

It only took them a few minutes to gather all of their things before they were ready to go. They stopped at Burger King and Clint wolfed down two burgers and fries. The police officers then took them to a building, leaving them with another older man. Clint was sad to see the lady go. He still didn't understand why their father hadn't come to pick them up yet, but Barney was with him, so he knew it was alright.

It sunk in, a week later that they were never going home. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

The boys' home was nice, Clint supposed at first. He got food and a bed to himself, which was new to him. There were other boys his age, and he figured for the first time he'd have friends.

He was wrong.

He had a few friends, mostly the few boys his age. But the boys came and went as they were adopted, always leaving Clint behind. Sometimes the older ones picked on him. Barney always said he'd protect him. He really, really tried. While he could make his point with the other boys that Clint was off-limits unless they wanted their ass kicked, he couldn't quite do the same for Old Man Dave.

Maybe the man just enjoyed beating on someone who couldn't beat back. Maybe it was some sick fascination. It wasn't just Clint – it was all of the younger boys. It soon became a race to see who could get away the fastest. Self-preservation won over friendships. But after the fifth time Clint had been locked outside to sleep in the doghouse in the cold, Barney's eyes went dark.

He kneeled down in front of a tearful Clint, gripped his shoulders and said, "We'll make it out of this. I promise."

And Clint had known everything would be okay.

Three nights later, with their pockets full of silver and Old Man Dave's wife's jewels, they hopped a train. They didn't much care where it was going; only that it was away from there.

Barney grunted as he slammed into the railing, flung by the force of the moving train. Next to him, Clint landed on all fours and rolled close to the edge. Barney grabbed his arm and hauled him upright before wrenching open the door.

The brothers stopped in their tracks.

Four men sat around a table, cards in their hands and scowls on their faces. The largest, meanest looking man stood up. "Well, lookie, we got stowaways!"

Two of the other men turned back to their game, uninterested. "Eh, throw 'em back, Bernie," one said with a wave of his hand.

Barney threw a hand out, shoving Clint behind him. He stood up tall as Bernie approached them. "No, wait, we just needed to get out of the city –"

Bernie laughed. "Like we ain't heard that before, boy! Everybody thinks they can just hop on board and run away with the circus, but it jus' don' work that way!"

Barney looked frantic. "Okay, here." He pulled the silver and jewelry from his pockets. "Let us stay on board. Let us join the circus."

Snorts erupted from the table.

"No!" Barney shouted adamantly. "We can work. We can work hard. Me and my brother."

"We don't take kids," Bernie sneered.

Barney jutted his chin out. "I'm eighteen, my brother is sixteen."

"Bull shit," Bernie argued, and grabbed Barney by the neck of his shirt.

"Hey!" Clint yelled, and latched onto the man's arm. "Let him go!" Bernie lifted him off the ground like he was nothing, and Clint's feet dangled in midair. He struggled wildly for a minute, before another voice spoke from the table.

"Bernie, man, put him down." It was the fourth man, who had since remained silent. He leaned forward on the table and nodded to the coins that had fallen from Barney's hands. "Just take 'em and leave the kids be. I'll take 'em to Carson in the morning and he'll decide. Cool?"

Bernie grunted and dropped Barney to the floor. Then he scooped up the gold and sat back down at the poker game. The Barton brothers sat, ignored in the corner through the night, before the train stopped again. The man who stood up for them took them to see the owner, Carson. Carson turned out to be a nice man who liked kids, and even though they were scrawny and underage, he gave them both chores and a place to sleep. Even though he only paid Barney, the brothers always had food in their bellies and no one laid a hand on them.

A circus, to any child, is a wondrous thing, and the brothers were ecstatic to be able to live in one. The bright lights, the sounds of laughter, the colours and the extravagant shows captured their hearts. They were enthralled with the fat lady, the man who played with fire, the archer and the man who juggled swords as effortlessly as he breathed. For the first time in a long time, they smiled and laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Another chapter on the shorter side. After this chapter, things really pick up, and the chapters are longer. I hope you enjoy, and if you read, please review.

**Warnings**: Strong language.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

* * *

_Clint held the hankie to his freely bleeding nose, watching his brother pace in front of him. _

_He didn't catch all of what Barney said, but from what he could hear, none of it was very nice. _

"_S'okay, Bardy," Clint attempted to say. _

_Barney violently shook his head. "If they think they can just _do_ this…" his words dissolved into more colourful language._

_Clint looked down at the hankie, trying to decide if the bleeding had stopped, when his brother knelt in front of him and grasped his shoulders. Clint looked back up into his brother's serious and open face.  
"Clint," he said. "We're going to get through this. The two of us, we have to stick together. Okay?"_

_Clint could only nod._

* * *

_Connecticut_

Barney tossed the man his last bill as he walked away, and wasted no time in opening the carton and shaking out a cigarette. With one sharp flick of his lighter he was inhaling the rancid smoke and blowing it out his nose – just because he could. At just fourteen years old, Barney Barton had aged internally, becoming a hard, often cold, man.

He strolled back to the horse stables, casually tossing the carton from hand to hand. When he stepped through the doors he didn't even wrinkle his nose; they'd been working and living with the circus for nearly a year as roustabouts. Their days were spent shovelling manure and putting up tents and taking down tents and running errands – anything that needed doing. But the Barton brothers were fine with that because they were together and they were free. And they were seeing the world. Or at least America.

Inside the stable, his brother Clint looked up from shovelling just in time to catch the pack of cigarettes thrown his way. He shook out a cigarette and tossed the rest back.

"We better get paid this week," Barney muttered around the cigarette dangling from his lips. "We ain't got nothing left."

Clint blew a smoke ring, grinning at his brother's furious look. He shrugged his shoulders. "C'mon, man. When have you ever cared about money? We don't need money."

Barney scowled. "You plannin' on growin' old here? Besides, old man Carson isn't holding this shit-hole together. We've had three pay cuts in the last two months and four red-lighted." He took another drag, pointing the butt at his brother for emphasis. "Those fucking performers and their fucking special treatment. We do all the work around here. It's not our fault business is failing – it's theirs."

Footsteps sounded outside, and the drone of multiple voices passed the tent. Barney poked his head out. "Lunch flag is up. Let's go." The brothers ground out their cigarettes and trudged towards the meal tent. They handed their lunch tickets over and carried their trays to the back of the tent where the rest of the workers ate, separated from the performers.

Clint, at age twelve, was really too young to understand why Barney speared his food with so much force that he broke through the paper plate.

Chores finished late that night, as the horse act had been pushed back several performances, and Clint and Barney were responsible for dealing with the horses. Clint rushed to finish because the one act he wanted to see was coming up.

As fast as he could, he unbridled the horses and cleaned the saddles. Then he brushed down the horses and made sure they had enough water and food to eat. He scrambled through it all. It wouldn't normally take him this long because Barney usually helped him, but Barney had disappeared again. Clint was pretty sure he was off with some of the older circus workers. Barney never bothered to tell Clint where he was going, and if Clint asked, Barney would just shrug and say he'd been "out".

Clint wasn't stupid; they'd both grown up in the same household. Their father always said he was "going out", and he always came back piss-ass drunk and raving mad.

But Clint shrugged it off because Barney would never hurt him. Barney was his brother.

With all of the horses back in their stables, Clint dashed off towards the Big Top, praying that he hadn't missed his favourite performance. He snuck in past the security and stayed in the shadowed corner near the back.

The heat was oppressive in the tent, but Clint ignored it and the crunch of popcorn beneath his shoes. He settled himself down on the floor and grinned wildly as the ringmaster announced the next act: Trickshot.

Their resident archer stepped onto the stage, dressed in a flashy gold and white outfit, amidst thundering applause. Clint clapped the hardest.

He watched in complete awe as Trickshot performed a dizzying number of stunts. He started with basic targets which increased in distance and angles, before he was pulling people from the audience to stand with apples on their heads. He had ten volunteers lined in a row, all with apples placed upon their heads. Trickshot studied them intensely for several minutes as the crowd held their breath, completely silent.

Clint swore that if you blinked, you'd miss it. In under five seconds, Trickshot had nocked and shot all ten apples off the volunteers' heads. The crowd went wild, hooting and yelling and stomping their feet.

After his act, Clint slipped out with the crowd, a smile plastered on his face. It couldn't be wiped off, even if Barney stumbled into their sleeping quarters late that night, smelling of beer.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favourite/read! Hope you enjoy!

**Warnings**: Strong language, underage smoking.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

4.

_Somehow, somewhere, Stark had found an old ad for the circus. It was yellowed and wrinkled with age, and the vivid purples and blues and yellows had faded, but there it was. _

_A sketch of a boy in in a purple suit, with a blindfold covering his eyes, yielding a bow and several arrows at once, was splashed across the front. He was aiming at a girl with an apple on her head, who looked positively frightened to be standing there. The headline screamed: The Amazing Hawkeye, Master Archer. _

_Clint touched it hesitantly, almost afraid it would burn him. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards. The circus had been several good years of his life. Some days, he really missed it. _

* * *

_Texas_

Clint and Barney whistled a jaunty tune in sync as they swept the tent. The circus was pulling out the next day and their job was to clean up and prepare for the move.

Clint skipped back a few steps and tossed the broom to the ground. "Again!" He called to Barney, a huge grin on his face.

Barney rolled his eyes, but indulged his younger brother. He picked up a crumpled popcorn bag and threw it at Clint.

Clint bounced it off his knee a few times, then across his feet and legs before he toed it into the trashcan across the tent. Clint whooped and jumped around in a circle but stopped when a voice barked at them.

"Hey! Quit goofing around!" It was Buck Chrisholm, also known as Trickshot, the resident archer and sharpshooter. Clint felt his face grow red as he scrambled to retrieve his broom.

"You." Clint stopped and turned around. The archer was looking directly at Clint. "Come here." Clint cast a look at Barney but approached Trickshot. Trickshot was giving him a strange look and Clint started to fidget anxiously. Buck picked a palm-sized rock from the ground and handed it to Clint. "Get this rock into that trash bin," he said, pointing to another can at the other side of the tent. This can was partially hidden from view, and had Clint not had quite extraordinary aim, he would have laughed and said it couldn't be done.

Clint wasn't sure what sort of test this was, but it was one he could do. Weighing the rock in his hand to get a feel for it, he shot Trickshot one more glance before throwing the rock, without much thought, into the trashcan. It made a small 'clang' sound as it hit the bottom.

He turned back to see that Trickshot was still staring at him. "Follow me," was all he said before stepping out of the tent. Clint shared a bewildered look with Barney before following him out. He trudged after Buck, straight into Buck's train car, where he pulled his bow from the wall and kept going behind the car.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked.

"Clint Barton."

"Okay, Clint, ever drawn a bow before?" he asked, offering the bow.

Clint stared at it with wide eyes. "N-no," he said. Trickshot pushed it into his hands and Clint reluctantly held it, albeit with hesitant and light fingers.

"Try it," he encouraged.

Clint shot him a horrified look, but Buck nodded. Clint gulped and turned the bow in his hands, trying to remember how he'd seen Buck do it so many times before. He'd managed to get his grip right and nocked the arrow, but as soon as he tried to pull the bowstring, his fingers slipped, surprised at the resistance. The arrow fell to the ground at his feet.

Trickshot chuckled as Clint cursed, his cheeks flaming. Buck took back the bow. "You'll be able to do it with more practice."

"What?" Clint finally asked.

"Your aim is perfect, kid. I know that with some work, I can make an apprentice out of you."

Clint's eyes widened. "Apprentice?"

Buck smiled. "Yeah."

There wasn't a night where Clint wasn't practicing archery. He'd gotten his own bow and he treated it as if it were his most prized possession – which it was. He practiced for hours on end after his regular duties and chores had been completed. Sometimes he skipped dinner. Barney became irritated and always voiced his lack of faith in his brother. Clint never heard any of it. He worked on his arm strength in order to draw the string. He worked and worked until his fingers and wrists were bleeding. And then he practiced some more. He worked closely with Buck, first on simple shots, and then steadily harder. Trickshot claimed he was a natural. They worked on an act and pitched it to Carson. Carson was skeptical, but gave them a week to try it. They were still just called 'Trickshot', but the crowd loved it and they changed it to 'Trickshot and the Archer', and then as they grew increasingly daring and successful, Clint got a name: Hawkeye. They were then 'Trickshot and Hawkeye: Master Marksmen'. The crowds ate it up. They were the main attraction in every state. Then Buck broke the news to Clint; he was retiring. He had been training Clint to replace him. When he left the circus, the act changed. 'The Amazing Hawkeye' took over.

Carson pulled Clint completely as a roustabout. He was now a performer. He gave Clint a paycheque. He got his own sleeping car. Barney disappeared sporadically. Clint didn't notice.

One day, as he was taking a smoke break from practice, Clint frowned as Barney stormed towards him, clearly upset. "They cut five more today. Including the Swordsman." He let out a string of curse words.

Clint shrugged. "But you weren't cut, were you?" He got no answer. "Don't sweat it, Barney. I'm getting paid well enough."

Barney scowled. "Yeah, my brother the fucking circus monkey. I don't need your money."

Clint stomped out his cigarette. "The fuck, Barney? What's your problem?"

Barney threw his arms out. "You. Me. This place. When are we leaving? This was never supposed to be permanent."

"You were fine three months ago. And I've got a show now. We can't just leave."

Barney's lips thinned as he regarded his brother. "I see. What's it gonna be, brother? You pick that dirty monkey over me? Huh?"

"No! Of course not, Barney."

"'Cause I've done all this for you. Everything was for you. I've always taken care of you."

"I know, Barney, I know –"

"So tell me now if you wanna stay. 'Cause I'm leaving. But if you don't care about family anymore, stay." He spun on his heel but Clint reached out and grasped his arm.

"No, Barney. No. I'll go with you. Just – just let me do this week's shows. I have a new act."

Barney let out a breath, but his expression softened. "Yeah. Alright."


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings**: Language, some violence.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

5.

"_I hated him for a very long time," Clint spoke softly. Thor looked over, surprised. "My brother," Clint clarified. "He left me to die, over money. Always said to me, 'We're going to get through this. I'll take care of you.' No matter where we were, I always believed him." _

_He dropped his chin into his hands. Thor looked on, listening in sad silence. _

"_I realize now, that he was just too young. Too damn young to do what he was doing. He tried his very best to raise me, but we were just kids. And he crumpled under the pressure." _

* * *

_Virginia_

Clint's smile remained on his face even after he'd left the stage to thundering applause. The audience had loved his new trick. It had taken him weeks to get it right.

He pulled the cowl from his head, ruffling his head of long, dark blonde hair. At sixteen, he was entering the age where it was cool and crucial to have long hair.

He passed by Mr. Carson, who clapped him on the back. "Great job, Barton. They loved it. You're the reason they come here." His face broke into a wide, genuine smile. "The Amazing Hawkeye."

Clint grinned. "Thank you, sir."

Carson nodded. "Now, run along, son, and get a good night's rest. You deserve it."

Clint left the tent as the beginning strains of the next act started up. He stepped out into the night and all the noises and colours of the circus hit him. He basked in the chaos. He loved this. Children on sugar highs ran by, trailed by weary parents, and lovers strolled around with their hands clasped. Clint shouldered his bow and headed back to his quarters on the train.

When he passed Carson's car, he heard whispers and footsteps from within. He frowned; Carson was at the Big Top. No one else was ever in his car. He stepped closer, swallowing his fear. He had to see who it was and what they were doing. Carson had given him everything.

Quickly, before he could regret the decision, he pushed open the door and jumped inside. Immediately, he was pinned up against the wall with an arm pressed to his throat. He gasped and pushed at it, when a cry of "Clint!" sounded, and the arm dropped.

He tentatively touched his throat, already feeling the bruise forming. He looked up to meet the scowling face of Jacques Duquesne, the Swordsman, and the shocked face of his brother, Barney.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Jacques demanded, turning to Barney. Barney never took his eyes off Clint.

"What are you guys doing in Carson's car?" Clint croaked. One look at Barney's face and he knew it wasn't anything good. His stomach turned to ice as he realized what they were doing. "You're stealing the money. That's where it's going. Why we're going under."

Jacques pulled out one of his throwing knives and began flipping it in his hands, still eyeing Clint. "Carson is a dumbass. Thinks he can get away with firing his best attraction?" His smile was menacing. "And he replaces me with some brat who can shoot. No, _that's_ why he's going under. We're just taking our fair share. You shouldn't have stuck your nose where it don't belong."

"Wait," Barney interrupted, stepping between them. His face was pale and his Adams' apple bobbed as he swallowed. "We can split with Clint, and he won't say a word. You can trust him." He turned pleadingly to his brother. "Right?"

Clint felt his world tilt. He was being asked to choose between his loyalty to his brother, who'd always been there for him, and his loyalty to the man he almost considered a father. He felt his soul rip in two.

For long moments, the Barton brothers gazed at each other in desperation, but Clint's conscious was screaming at him. Stealing wasn't right, and he could not forget about it.

"No," he breathed. "I can't, I'm sorry." He made to leave but Jacques shoved him back.

"You ungrateful little shit," he snarled. The knife hovered around Clint's eye and he squirmed in Jacques' hold. "After all that we've done for you, and you're going to snitch?" The knife pressed into his neck. Clint felt a hot stream of liquid slide down his neck.

"Jacques," Barney said, sounding panicked.

"No," Jacques retorted. "This man isn't worth for you to call your brother." Then he retracted the knife and shoved it in Clint's abdomen.

Clint gasped and bent forwards, hands automatically reaching for the metal in his body. His heart skipped several beats when he touched it and his nerves screamed in pain.

Darkness swam across his vision and he lost strength in his legs. His knees buckled and he fell back against the wall, sliding roughly to the floor.

He coughed harshly, but that only made the pain worse. He caught sight of his brother standing in front of him, watching.

"Bar-" he tried, begging for help, because his brother could fix anything. His brother's lips moved, but Clint couldn't hear him over the rushing sound in his ears.

What hurt more than the knife Jacques had plunged in Clint's stomach, was the knife Barney plunged in his heart as he turned and left him behind to die.

Mr. Carson found Clint not long after, bleeding to death on the floor of his car. He'd yelled for help and held Clint, speaking reassuringly to him until the ambulance arrived.

It took several weeks for Clint to recover, but Carson wasn't too far. He'd gotten his daughter to keep the circus running when he wasn't there, and he extended the show by two weeks, despite having lost his two best acts.

But when Clint was well enough, he told Carson that he was leaving. There was no way he could go back. A part of him broke to see this man, who had done so much for him, look so depressed. But Clint was done doing the right thing for the sake of others, unless it benefitted him. From then on, he was going to look out for number one and no one else.

So he left, with no clue as to what his next step would be. He was only a surly sixteen-year-old with no family and little money. He was cold and uninviting.

How he came to the logical conclusion that a hit man was the ideal career choice, he put that down to a night of too many drinks and the feeling of drowning in anger and needing an outlet.

He called himself Hawkeye. He liked the stage name, so he figured he'd keep it. He dropped the 'Amazing' part. That reminded him too much of his theatrical past. He didn't care who he killed or why. Or at least that's what he told himself for a very long time. Anger coloured his every action, his every thought. He was a changed man.

His eyes became hollow and dead. Why should he care about taking a life when Barney didn't?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, or read! This chapter begins the next segment of this story. This, and the ones that follow, are my favourite, and I had so much fun writing them. Hope you enjoy, and if you read, please review!

**Warnings**: Language.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

6.

_The file arrived on Coulson's desk, marked as low profile. Nothing urgent, but it meant someone was starting to appear on SHIELD's radar. He opened it. _

_Eighteen-year-old Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, was the go-to person if you wanted a hit done, and done with style. His arrows never left doubt that it was his hit. _

_Psych had him pegged as a 'violent psychopath.'_

* * *

_Berlin_

Clint hadn't moved from his spot in over five hours, despite the gusting winds and intermittent rain. He'd been hired by one scumbag to take out another scumbag. He didn't care so long as he still got paid.

He watched with a careful eyes as his target, Hans Stronberg, moved amongst his guests, his sleazy smile never wavering. He shook hands and laughed at everything anyone said. It probably wasn't anything funny, Clint mused.

Clint tracked the mobster's movements. The man was a brazen idiot. He'd been swindling funds from the mafia for years and now was using it to throw a great party. He had a great big bulls eye painted on his head.

The mark began to make his way to his office. Perfect. Clint had the best angle there and he could stick an arrow through his heart and beat it out of there before anyone noticed.

He notched an arrow and took aim, but before he could release, the office door opened again and a curvy red head slipped in, holding two flutes of champagne.

Clint scowled as the mark schmoozed with the woman, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle. She dipped her head and her cheeks flushed, embarrassed. The mark took a sip of the champagne before placing it down on his desk in favour of having both hands available.

Clint almost groaned. Seriously? Now? Here?

The mark grabbed the woman and kissed her roughly on the lips, letting his hands roam over her body.

Suddenly, the man stilled. He pulled back and looked at the woman. She stared impassively back. His face paled and twisted as if in pain. Then he stumbled back against the desk, breathing heavily. The woman in the black dress smiled down at him, her plump, blood-red lips moving as she spoke to the mark. Then she turned towards the window, stared straight at Clint, and blew him a kiss before sashaying from the room and the gurgling man.

"Shit!" Clint swore, because she had just killed _his_ mark, _his_ man, _his_ job. They were going to have his head.

He swung his bow towards the window and without a second thought, sent the arrow straight through Hans' heart, sending him straight back to the desk to lie motionless. An arrow was so distinctively him that his success wouldn't be questionable.

Then he swung the bow back over his shoulder and leapt from his perch to chase down the woman.

But when he reached the street, there was no sign of her.

Two weeks later, Clint sauntered into the local bar, looking to blow off some of his hit money and get completely wasted. He dressed in his customary black shirt, ratty jeans and worn out leather jacket, with his hair brushing against his collar and complete with a set of small, hoop earrings.

As soon as he entered, however, a flash of bright red hair caught his eye. The minx that took down his target was lounging on a barstool at the bar.

Smoothly, he slid into the seat next to her, and without casting a glance her way, ordered a beer. While he waited, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

The beautiful red head kept her eyes forward, but spoke in a husky voice, with a hint of a Russian accent, "Those things will kill you."

He blew the smoke her way, grinning as she turned to face him with a look of annoyance on her pretty face. He chuckled. "I've got a lot more to be afraid of than cancer," he responded.

"Mm," she said, resting one elbow on the bar and dropping her chin on her fist.

He leaned towards her. "Yeah, like my employers." He took a long sip of his beer, quirking an eyebrow meaningfully.

Her grin was both predatory and beautiful. She tossed her head, sending her long red locks back over her shoulder. "Nothing personal," she purred. "He pissed off a lot of people." Draining the last of her glass, she stood. "Well, this has been fun…" she trailed off.

"Hawkeye," he offered.

Her eyes flashed with recognition. His pride bloomed. So she had heard of him. She bared her teeth at him in a sultry smile and leaned close to whisper in his ear. "Black Widow," she purred, before walking out much the same as she'd done at the mark's mansion.

As soon as she left, Barton allowed the small prickle of fear to envelop him. He drank the rest of his beer and ordered another.

He knew who the Black Widow was. Given what he'd heard, he knew it was extremely fortunate she'd left him alive, seeing as he'd stepped on her turf.

He had the fleeting thought that perhaps she liked him.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Again, thank you to everyone who has read, or reviewed! Hope you enjoy this chapter as we see just what happened in Budapest...

**Warnings**: Strong language, some violence.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

7.

"_No, let me guess," Tony interrupted. "'Just like Budapest.'"_

_The spies exchanged glances, matching smiles on their faces. _

"_Nah," Barton said. "Budapest went a _little_ differently."_

* * *

_Budapest_

Clint was not impressed with this job, but he'd been offered a lot of money, nearly double his last job, and it wasn't as if the mark was high profile and would be surrounded by security. Basically, this job would be a slam dunk.

What bothered him was that the job was up-close. The mark was secluded, never left his house, and always kept his windows shuttered. That meant that Clint had to enter the house and get his hands dirty. He always worked better from a distance.

Getting into the house was easy. The security system was pathetic and took him five seconds to disarm. Then, he silently crept through the halls, listening closely, bow at the ready. He checked every room but found no sign of the mark. He could hear nothing; maybe he'd gone to sleep. The last room he had to check was the master bedroom.

He threw open the door and raised his bow – and froze. The room was empty. For several seconds he remained there, thoughts and scenarios racing through his mind.

"You again," a familiar voice came from the doorway.

Hawkeye spun around, leveling his bow at the newcomer, who had her own guns pointed straight between his eyes. Her green eyes glinted fiercely in the dim room and her curvy figure was clad in a black jumpsuit.

"Where's Burgeon?" he demanded.

One of her eyes twitched, and he saw a brief flash of confusion. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

Clint's heart stopped for a moment as the two assassins eyed one another. "We've been set up," he said.

The Black Widow had a second to digest the information before the window behind Clint shattered as it was pounded by gunfire. The pair dropped to the ground and rolled to rest against the wall, glass crunching beneath their feet.

"What the hell?" she hissed. More glass rained on their heads. She glared at him. "Friends of yours?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "How about _your_ friends?" he asked.

She growled and jumped up, firing off two quick shots through the window before sliding back down beside him. There was some yelling coming from the front of the house and the sound of the front door being smashed down.

"We need to head to the back," he shouted. Without looking to see if she would follow, he headed out of the room, head ducked against the constant shower of bullets.

When he stepped out of the room, he turned and started down the hallway. Suddenly, two men appeared from around the corner, but an arrow lodged in one's throat and before he was even finished firing, the other was thrown back with a bullet between the eyes. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the Black Widow beside him, guns held out at the ready.

The pair made their way out the back, slowing only when they encountered more men. By the time they reached the backyard, all the men who'd come in after them were dead. Clint sighed and lowered his bow. "Well, now wasn't _that_ one hell of a party. Do –" he was cut off as the screech of tires met their ears. The assassins shared a meaningful look.

Without a word, the Black Widow took off, scaling the fence with practiced ease. Clint slipped his bow over his shoulder and followed her down the street to a parked car. She had already opened the door and was fiddling with the steering column, hotwiring it. Clint hopped into the passenger seat without hesitation.

The engine roared to life and the Black Widow shot him an annoyed look.

The cars were getting closer, and Clint yelled, "Let's go, woman!"

She ground her teeth, but stomped on the accelerator. "You are so lucky I'm feeling generous today," she grumbled.

Clint grinned.

The back window shattered as the men in the car caught up, and both instinctively ducked. The Black Widow yanked on the wheel, and their tires screeched as they turned sharply onto another street. The car behind them followed.

Clint pulled out his backup gun and leaned out the window, firing off a few shots, but both cars swerved and his shots went wild. He looked back to his driver. Her eyes were set and every muscle in her body was tense.

Their pursuers fired off a few more shots, and Clint ducked back inside. "Can you keep her steady?" he asked the Widow. She nodded once. Clint took a deep breath and hung nearly half his torso outside the window, took careful aim, and fired twice. The front tires popped and the car spun out of control, slamming into the guardrail.

The Black Widow slammed on the brakes and expertly brought the car around, stopping it a few feet from the smashed car. They both got out and approached the smoking wreck.

Clint scowled as he nudged one of the dead men over. He recognized him as the lackey of the man who hired him for the hit. "That shit," he swore. "I'll put a fucking arrow through his eye for this. Now," he said, turning to his impromptu accomplice. "I don't know what your angle in this is, but –" he stopped when he realized he was talking to thin air. He let out a breath. "Yeah, okay. You're welcome." Then he beat it out of there as the sound of sirens made their way closer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

8.

"_Y'know," Barton tossed out casually, "this was kind of like Mumbai."_

"_I think you mean Dubai," Natasha answered. _

"_No, no. But with some Venezuela. Yeah, and a little Mozambique."_

"_Yeah, definitely Mozambique. But no Venezuela. Though there was a lot of Paris."_

"_Oh…you're right. That was totally Paris."_

_Tony scoffed. "Okay, how about Trinidad, huh?" he asked sarcastically. _

_Both spies whirled on him, matching serious expressions on their faces. "We don't talk about Trinidad," Natasha said coldly. _

* * *

_Salisbury _

It was pure coincidence that they met again. But the amount of times they'd crossed paths, Clint was starting to believe it was a little more than coincidence. If he believed in fate and all that crap then maybe he'd look for a big picture or some such thing. But he didn't believe in any of that.

She sat on the front patio of a quaint little restaurant, at a table all by herself. She wore a light blue sundress with a matching hat. The hat had a wide brim that shaded her eyes, but it never completely covered her hair. He was starting to think her hair was more of a statement than a personal choice. It was so brazen and memorable and easily changed, and yet she never dyed it.

He approached her from behind, but she stiffened ever so slightly that he knew she had seen him.

He slid into the empty seat across from her without asking permission, a wide, cheeky grin on his face. "I'm starting to think you're stalking me," he joked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

She fixed him with a look of disdain from underneath her hat. Her green eyes flashed with annoyance. "Maybe _you're_ stalking _me_."

He chuckled and offered her a cigarette. She wrinkled her nose. He shrugged and stuffed them back in his pocket. "So, what are you doing here?"

She took a dainty sip from her teacup. "_I_ am enjoying my lunch."

He eyed her plate. "Mm, this does look good." He then proceeded to wave over the waiter and order a dish, despite the Black Widow's quiet protests.

When the waiter was gone, she fixed him with her trademark glare that had made even the strongest men tremble in fear. It appeared to have no effect on this American. "What _are_ you doing?" she hissed.

"_I_," he emphasized, "am waiting for my lunch."

She huffed and turned from his stupid smile.

"So, what have you been up to lately?" he asked casually, as if they were friends just enjoying lunch. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned towards her.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Why? We're just two people enjoying lunch."

"I'm not so sure about the 'enjoyment' part anymore," she grumbled, watching as the waiter brought his burger.

"Oh, please, you enjoy my company. I know you do." When she looked skeptical, he pointed out, "There's at least three instances where you could have killed me, but didn't." He cocked an eyebrow.

"You're not worth it."

He laughed heartily, which only served to heighten her annoyance. She resigned herself to not getting rid of him.

"Are you working today?" he asked around a mouthful of burger.

She froze with the teacup hallway to her lips.

He shrugged. "C'mon, it's a simple question."

"_I_ am on vacation."

Clint used the fries in his hand to point at her. "Ain't that something? I am on vacation too."

She abruptly put her teacup back on the saucer, perhaps with too much force. It definitely belayed her anger. She turned to fully face him. "Is there something you wanted, Hawkeye?"

"Well, yes, now that you mention it. I don't even know your name."

The Black Widow remained silent. Clint was unfazed. "Fine. I'll go first. I'm Clint. Clint Barton. It's nice to meet you…" he trailed off, his hand offered to her.

For several long moments she studied him, and she must have come to some sort of conclusion because she took his hand. "Natasha Romanova."

"Natasha. I like it." She huffed and picked her tea back up. "How about we do something tonight, Natasha?"

"Are you asking me on a date?"

He spread his hands out innocently.

"No," she said sharply.

He pouted. "Seriously? Aw, man. Well," he sighed dramatically, "at least we'll always have Budapest." He caught her confused look. His jaw dropped. "Oh my god. Are you serious? 'We'll always…' You didn't get that? Are you that uncultured?"

"Is this some sort of American joke?"

"I – oh man," he groaned. "Tell you what. I'll explain it over dinner. Eight o'clock at Sam's."

Her only response was: "We'll see."

Ten minutes later, they parted ways. At eight o'clock, Clint entered Sam's and waited an hour for her. He couldn't say he was surprised when she never showed.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Thank you, everyone! For reviews, favourites, and reading :) Hope you enjoy this next installment!

**Warnings**: Strong language. Some violence.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

9.

_They had ended up back at his place, after several bottles of beer and vodka shots. Clint hated the stuff, but he was trying to outdo Natasha. It turned out he couldn't, and probably never would. But they were drunk enough, because they were both smoking, and Natasha was talking about herself. Neither of those ever happened. _

_She was even talking about the Red Room. _

"_I left when I was fourteen," she said. "One of the first things they do is to destroy you. I thought they had succeeded. My first job was to take out a twelve-year-old girl, because her father had angered them." She frowned and took another drag of her cigarette. "We were at a sleepover. She gave me a doll. It was a kindness I had never been shown." Then her lips clamped together, and not another word was spoken. _

_But Clint could read between the lines. _

* * *

_Chicago_

The letter left in his mailbox had held nothing but a name and his fee up front. The hitman 'Hawkeye' had become known so well in the dark circles of the underworld that it wasn't unusual for him to receive these anonymous hits.

The hit was fairly easy. Clint quickly moved from the location, his hood over his head and shading his eyes, taking the rooftops through the city. Rooftops were his preferred mode of travel, partly because he enjoyed the height.

He was jogging across one rooftop when something caught his eye. Eight dark figures slunk towards a dilapidated warehouse with only a single light on inside. What caught his eye were the way the figures held themselves; they were obviously packing heat.

For a moment, Clint paused. He could not understand why his feet stilled and his vision focused on that building. His head told him to keep going, but his heart screamed for him to check it out. For the first time in a long time, he followed his heart and not his head.

He found a rooftop entrance and hid amongst the shadows of the catwalk. He'd passed the eight previous men, plus two more on the perimeter. In the center of the room, below him, stood three men and one woman.

The three men stood opposite the woman. Two men flanked the third, which told Clint that they were hired muscle. The woman had flaming red hair and that told Clint all he needed to know. Slowly, silently, he pulled his out his bow and readied an arrow.

Down below, the Black Widow glanced down at the object in her hands. "And this contains it all?" She asked.

The man across from her chuckled. "For another $500 000 you can have the rest."

The Black Widow straightened. "That was not the deal."

He sneered. "I am changing the deal." His hand went for his pocket, but before it got there, he was on the ground, an arrow through his heart. Natasha, quick as a striking snake, whipped out her guns and took down the two henchmen before they could wipe off their dumfounded looks.

In the next beat, he'd leaped from the catwalk and landed next to Natasha. She whirled on him, guns pointed at his face, but she didn't fire. Her expression was incredulous. "What the hell!" she cried.

He pulled another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. "You owe me dinner," he replied, spinning around to fire at the rest of the henchmen as they entered.

"What?" she yelled, her back now to him as she took on the rest of the men.

"You stood me up!"

She let loose a long string of Russian curses. Hawkeye grinned because she was calling him some truly creative and colourful things.

Suddenly, she stumbled forwards, and her face registered first shock and then pain. Clint spun around and the last two men were down.

He rushed towards her and was met with a muzzle in his face. "Don't come near me," she snarled, straightening up. Though her face was relaxed once again, her eyes were wild and her shirt was beginning to drip red.

"Jesus Christ, woman," Clint growled, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm not going to hurt you! Shit, I came here and saved your ass!"

Her grip on the gun was steady. "Why the hell did you do that?"

"How the fuck should I know?" he asked exasperatedly. "Look, I saw eight men sneak up on you and if it weren't for me, you'd be dead. Now get that damn gun out of my face and let me see your arm."

Natasha slowly lowered her gun, but stepped away from him when he attempted to see her wound. He decided to let it pass for the moment.

"Let's go," he said instead. "In case there are more." And without waiting to see if she would follow, he headed out the back and into the dark alley.

He did not hear her footsteps behind him, but he'd developed and honed a sixth sense to know when he was being followed. And it said a lot that he had his back to her and she followed him.

They slipped unseen past the emergency vehicles that showed up, and made their way through several streets and yards before Clint stopped in front of one building. He moved around to a side window, low to the ground, and jiggled the lock before it popped open.

Natasha lifted an eyebrow. "You're place?" she asked sardonically.

He laughed darkly. "One day soon," was all he said. Then he pushed the window open and slipped inside, Natasha nimbly following him in.

The smell hit him first as his shoes landed with a squeak on the cold, tiled floor. The cold air instantly chilled him as he approached the light switch. Flicking it on, he blinked a few times as the sterile room, lined with doors from floor to ceiling, came into view.

Natasha muttered another Russian curse. "How quaint; the morgue." She curled her lip. "Come here often?"

He shrugged and opened a few drawers, pulling out various medical supplies. "Only when I'm in town and need a few things." He gestured for her to come closer.

She took her time stepping towards him, but Hawkeye knew she could have killed him at any point. He met her eyes for a moment before he reached for her arm. Other than a momentary flinch, her face revealed nothing as he stitched up her arm.

"So," Cling began as he cleaned the wound. "How long have you been in the business?"

"I was born into it," she responded frankly.

He stilled for a moment and looked up at her. Her face was smooth. And though he knew she was an expert liar, he knew intrinsically in that moment that she was not lying to him.

To relieve some of the tension, Clint whistled. "That's a long time. 'Bout time you retired, huh?" he smiled crookedly, applying the last bandage before stepping back and regarding her over his crossed arms.

"You know as well as I do that you don't just walk away from this life. No matter how much you want to." The last part she spoke softer, just low enough that the Hawk could hear it. It spoke to something inside him, something he'd long since tried to bury, but something he never could: his conscience.

He dropped his arms back to his sides and nodded, gaze at the floor. "Yeah," was all he said.

Then, before he could register her movement, the Black Widow was right in front of him, her hands on his chest, and her bright green eyes inches from his face. Her plump red lips parted slightly as she tilted her head forward, locking her lips onto his.

He was stunned, and it took several moments for his head to clear. When it did, he grasped her shoulders and pushed her back. _Damn_, he thought.

She regarded him with a bewildered stare. "What are you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing?" he countered.

"Expressing my gratitude," she whispered, sounding hurt. "Did I do something wrong?"

Hawkeye waited for the punch line, but her gaze never wavered. He sighed. "You want to express your gratitude? Buy me diner. You stood me up the last time."

She stepped back, clearly shocked. But a few moments later, her mouth stretched into a smile, and Clint couldn't help returning it.

It was the first real smile he'd seen on her.

They ended up at Mario's. Clint insisted she try the pie. After that they ended up at his place. It was the one thing Clint dreaded and dreamed, but it happened. She took off the next morning, but he expected that. It wasn't as if they were normal people with normal jobs. They were loners. But somehow they always met up at Mario's. Or Café Bleu in Paris. Or Fabio's in Vienna. Or Sam's in Salisbury. Two weeks, or two months later, one or the other would be sitting there, a slice of pie before them. Clint, with a beer, and she, with Vodka.

They hardly spoke about themselves; they weren't very open people. But the little things that Natasha would say or do provided enough. She didn't trust men. Clint was the first man who hadn't been kind to her simply so that he could take her to bed. She had been brainwashed to be a killer and seducer; it was all she knew. She left the only 'family' she had known and went out on her own as a contract killer. And she was only sixteen, a year younger than he.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**: Continued thanks to everyone reading/reviewing/favouriting! Hope you all enjoy this next chapter!

**Warnings**: Some violence.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

10.

_Clint walked into the room, and the mocking words died from Tony's lips as he saw the determined look on Clint's face. Clint stopped in front of Tony, Bruce and Steve, who were sitting in the living room, and slapped a file down on the table. _

"_I know you've been trying to find it, Stark, so here it is. My file. Unedited. No redactions. I won't blame you if you want nothing to do with me after." Then he turned and left the room, leaving a stunned group behind. _

* * *

_Boston_

Clint Barton had been lost in a mindless void of death for so long he was sure he didn't have a conscience anymore. But on a drizzly afternoon in Boston, Barton discovered he had a limit.

He'd heard through a few people about a high risk, high skill job that needed doing from a man named George. Hawkeye had heard of George and knew he was a man you didn't tangle with. He stayed in the underworld and had his hands in just about everything. But Barton seized this chance to earn a great sum of cash and boost his reputation. A hit for George would take him up several notches on the ladder of mercenaries.

He visited one of George's employees in a back room of a pub in Boston and told him he'd take the job.

The mustachioed man nodded and threw a picture at him. Clint picked it up from the table and felt his stomach drop a few feet. The photo showed a young girl, perhaps five or six, with her long red hair in braids and a large, toothless smile.

Barton prided himself on never having an emotional connection to a target. He'd long since sold his soul to the devil and never looked back.

But he knew he couldn't take this hit.

He chuckled humourlessly, trying to ease the tension in his chest. _What the hell was wrong with him?_ "And what'd she do to you, man?" he asked.

The thug frowned at him. "Sean Murphy made George look foolish. Kill the girl and make Murphy pay."

Barton shook his head and slid the photo back. "Hey, man, I don't do kids. No one said anything about a kid."

The thug scowled, casting a suspicious eye over him. "What's a matter, chief? You a cop?"

"No, not a cop." He stood up from the table and walked to the door.

"Hey!" the man yelled behind him. "Where do you think you're going? You can't just say no to George!"

Clint ignored him and continued into the dark and loud pub. His eyes quickly spotted two huge security guards headed for him. He slipped through the crowds and headed for the side door, sidestepping and pushing people as he went. He threw open the emergency door and took off into the night.

Footsteps pounded behind him, but he didn't even look back. Around the corner he found a fire escape attached to a small building. He climbed the first floor, then leaped over the railing and into the next alley. He only stopped fifteen blocks later, heading towards the library to do some research.

Only one thought was on his mind the whole time, and not once did he think to talk himself out of it or try and convince himself it was a bad idea. There was just no way he was going to let them kill the girl. Innocent children shouldn't pay for the sins of their parents.

Clint had to call in a few favours, but he found all the details needed for the hit. It only occurred to him once that he was digging himself a deeper hole for George to bury him in.

He hopped on a plane and arrived in Dublin the day before the scheduled hit, settling himself on the edge of the vast estate, prepared for a long wait.

It wasn't long before he saw a dark clad man enter the back door, so Hawkeye quickly abandoned his perch and slipped into the house.

The hit man didn't waste any time. By the time Clint entered the kitchen, Murphy was strapped down to a chair and the hit man was dousing the kitchen in gasoline.

Murphy was sobbing uncontrollably. "Don't. Don't – please. Please…my daughter." The black figure ignored him, pulling a match from his pocket and striking it.

Clint jumped through the doorway and pulled his bowstring back to his cheek. "Freeze," he said dangerously.

Only a shadow of the man's face was visible in the flickering glow. His mouth stretch in a grin as he flicked his wrist, and the match dropped.

The walls shot up in a blaze of fire, sending Barton stumbling back several steps. When he was right again, all that remained in the room was him and the wailing father.

He stumbled through the smoke towards Murphy. "My girl, my girl," Murphy cried as Barton cut his bonds.

"I've got her! You get out of here!" he shouted over the roar of the flames. Murphy stood, undecided for several moments, but the oppressive heat quickly made up his mind.

Hawkeye jumped through the smoke and after the hit man. He stumbled up the stairs and spotted the legs of the man a few steps above him. He leaped forwards, tackling the man, and the two tumbled across the landing. The flames licked up the stairs, traveling steadily forwards.

They traded a few blows before the man pulled a knife from his pocket and lunged for Clint's jugular. Clint was able to block the fatal blow with his forearm, leaving a hefty slice. He winced but followed through with a left hook, knocking the man out cold.

He rolled to his feet and let out a hacking cough before stooping low to avoid the blackening smoke.

With several muttered curses – most at his own stupidity – he dashed down the hallway, looking for Aoife's room. Three doors down, there was a door decorated with unicorns and hearts. This he assumed was her room. He wrenched open the door, but found the room empty.

"Aoife!" He called, and choked on some more of the smoke. "Aoife?"

He heard a small whimper from the closet. Clint's heart dropped to his stomach as his mind went back to his childhood. "Aoife," he said again, softer, moving to the closet. "Aoife, please, come out."

He saw two small eyes peek out of the closet. "D-daddy," she whimpered.

"He's outside, Aoife. He's fine. Now please come out, sweetheart. We need to get out and then I'll take you to your daddy." There was some more sniffling and then a small hand grasped Clint's proffered one, and Aoife stepped out of the closet.

Clint scooped her small form into his arms, and her arms immediately snaked around his neck as she buried her face into his shoulder.

Clint adjusted his jacket to cover her body, and then took a peek into the hall. The smoke was getting thicker. Cursing softly, he shut the door and moved to Aoife's window. The window overlooked the yard and a tree sat a few feet from the window. It would be easier if he didn't have a child, but it was his only choice.

"Alright, Aoife. Keep your eyes closed and hold tight, okay?" he asked. In response, she held on so tight she was almost strangling him.

He threw open the window and the fresh air was blessed. He took several gulps before climbing onto the ledge. He cast a calculating eye across the distance to the tree, added the extra weight, and jumped.

It wasn't his smoothest landing, but he made it. Aoife retained her death grip on his neck as he scaled down the tree. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the police gathering at the base of the tree, weapons pointed and shouting.

He ignored them until he touched solid ground, then raised his hands as they surrounded him.

"Get down! Get on your knees!"

He complied, interlocking his hands behind his head, staring them straight in the eyes. One officer, a rookie, looked absolutely terrified when he locked eyes with Barton.

They stepped closer. "Let go of the girl! Let go of the girl!" They shouted.

Clint scowled at them. "I'm not holding her." Aoife peeked out and squeaked, hiding her face back in Clint's shoulder. Her grip tightened. "You're scaring her. Put the guns away."

The police frowned and clutched their guns tighter, but didn't move any closer. Hawkeye stayed where he was, glaring at them. "Where's her father?" he asked.

Just then, Murphy pushed through the officers. "Aoife!" he called. The little girl unlatched herself from Clint and flung herself at her father. The police immediately launched themselves on Clint. He caught Murphy's eyes for a second before Clint was shoved into the ground.

They took his bow and quiver, the rookie's eyes nearly falling out of their sockets as one speculated that he might be the elusive Hawkeye.

From there, he was paraded around the station briefly before the FBI, CIA, Interpol and a slew of other acronyms Clint didn't bother remembering interrogated him before extraditing him back to the States.

They couldn't pin any of his old kills on him, but the fact that he had a bow and arrows on him, and that the victims were killed with arrows, was too much for the courts to discount. Not to mention the body that had been left inside the burning house at the Murphy's. The trial went very fast, and ultimately, a sentence was reached.

Clint had long ago given up any interest in his life. He ran with dangerous people who could kill him in a moment's notice. He accepted that – embraced it even. He no longer cared whether he lived or died.

He realized that moment what a joke that was. He cared very much, especially as the judge announced the death sentence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Warnings:** Strong language.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

11.

_Coulson set the file down in front of Fury. "We have a new development." _

_Fury looked questioningly at his best agent._

"_Barton walked away from the hit."_

"_And?"_

"_He took down the other assassin, and jumped inside the blazing house for the father and daughter." He looked Fury in the eye. "Psych has him all wrong. I know they do. He could have beat it out of there. He didn't even have to go. We can use that." _

_Fury leaned back in his seat. "He won't join."_

_Phil smiled grimly. "He will." _

* * *

_ADX Prison, Florence_

The man in the suit was obviously extremely high up, the guard figured, casting him a few wary glances as he led him down the hallways. He'd seen the government ID, but no one without a high security clearance was allowed to see this particular prisoner. The man was a hard core mercenary who had more supposed murders than they'd been able to pin on him. Most of the inmates were terrified of him, and all of the guards were wary.

He was Hawkeye, for goodness sakes. The name whispered in fear in the underbelly of the world. The man was a legend. Some swore he was a demon.

The man in the suit walked with a purposeful step, his demeanor radiating calm. The guard had asked him several times if he was sure this was the man he wished to see.

Finally, they stopped outside of a heavy cement door. The guard pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. "Just knock when you're done," he said and locked the man inside.

The suit stood just inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting before moving further in. His eyes fixed on the man in the orange jumpsuit on the other side of the table, shackled down, but leaning back in his chair, relaxed and smirking.

"Hey man, the FBI was already here last week. You need to learn how to send memos."

The suit's expression never changed. He walked slowly towards the available chair and lowered himself into it. All through this, he never broke eye contact.

Hawkeye resolutely stared back. He knew these intimidation techniques. Everyone who'd been to see him had done the same. They had all been sorely disappointed.

The staring contest lasted ten minutes, neither man willing to give in. But there was something about this man's stare that unsettled Barton. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Who the fuck are you?" he finally blurted. "I don't have time for this shit."

"Got a lunch date, do you?" the man asked blandly.

"Yeah," Barton sneered. "With your mother."

The suit hummed, but his face never changed. It was really starting to bother Barton.

Finally, Barton said, "What do you want?"

The man pulled out a thick file and slapped it on the table in front of him. He shot Barton a glance over the top of his nose before opening the file and reading, "Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye. Born in Waverly, Iowa, to parents Francine and Roger –"

Barton scowled and made to slam his hands on the table, but the chains prevented him. "What's your game?" He growled.

The suit flipped through a few pages. "Anthony Drew. Steven Hopps. Madeline Schultz. Zoltan Szabo. Count Strauss, Countess Strauss, Nicholae Rov-"

Barton attempted to stand this time, but his legs were shackled and the chair was bolted to the ground.

The man folded his hands atop the file and looked back at the fuming prisoner. "And those are just the ones we're aware of. Though there are a great number of rumours circling about the man with the arrows. Not exactly low profile, is it?"

"It makes a point."

"You certainly have. Barton, my name is Agent Phil Coulson and I work for an organization called Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. You probably haven't heard of us, we're pretty covert."

Barton remained silent and still.

Agent Coulson continued, "You have some very specific skills, skills that could be utilized for the purpose of good."

Barton chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "You want me to work for you? That's funny. Why the fuck do you think I'd agree to that?"

The agent raised an eyebrow. "You're on death row."

Barton's smile slid from his face and his eyes narrowed.

Agent Coulson leaned forward, his voice low. "Now, you listen here, Barton. This is a one-time offer. After I leave this room, the offer expires. You got that?" He paused, letting that sink in. "SHIELD is offering you a position as field agent. Your aim is quite extraordinary. And you get out of here." His voice dropped lower. "I read the files. You're a shadow. Twenty-seven rumoured hits, and you get caught on one that wasn't even your hit. You risked it all for one little girl. That's not the mindless killer in these files."

The assassins face was like stone, his eyes unwavering.

Very slowly, Agent Coulson closed Barton's file and stood from the table. He pushed his chair in delicately. With slow, measured steps, he headed to the door and knocked twice.

"Wait," Barton said.

Coulson turned back. Barton was sitting up straight, eyes widened. "Wait." He breathed a little harder, the threat of imminent death starting to crush his insides. "Wait. I – what do I do?"

The door creaked open and the guard appeared in the doorway. "I'll be in touch," was all Coulson said before he left.


	12. Chapter 12

**Warnings**: Strong language. Clint being his usual smart-ass self, and Coulson being his usual bad-ass self.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

12.

"_Here's what I'm getting from Psych: arrogant, problems with authority, reckless." Fury looked up at Phil. "He better get his act together. Now." _

* * *

_ADX Prison, Florence_

Three days later, Barton was sitting in his cell when one of the guards approached and called for him. One guard threw a pair of clothes at him. "Put these on," he ordered. Barton did, and went through the routine of being shackled before the door opened and several guards entered. They marched him down the hallways before depositing him in front of Agent Coulson.

Coulson nodded to the guards. "I've got it from here, thank you," he said. "The cuffs aren't necessary." The guards cast a suspicious glance at the lowly agent to handle the dangerous criminal, but left him to it. Coulson regarded Clint through his sunglasses. "You need a shave. I bet they don't allow you near razors."

Clint scowled and flipped him the bird. Coulson just inclined his head toward the exit. "Shall we?"

They stepped out into the sunlight, and Clint took in a deep breath. He hadn't been in jail long but it had felt like several years, and he realized just how much he'd missed being outside, and _free_. The agent stopped at a non-descript black car, and gestured towards the passenger side before he moved to the drivers' side. Clint hesitated a moment before he got in.

"Where we going?" he asked.

Coulson paused and shot him a look. "Nowhere until you buckle up." Clint did so, but extra slowly, just to annoy Coulson. When he had fastened the seatbelt, Coulson spoke again. "We're going to headquarters. You will go through medical, psych, and basic fitness exams, as well as skill evaluations. We'll provide you with a room, food, and a salary. In return, you will be trained as an agent, and you will be loyal to SHIELD." He took his eyes off the road fixed Clint with a meaningful look. "You were made for greater things. We will help you to those greater things. Now you can work for the good guys."

Clint did not have the warmest welcome at SHIELD. Not that he expected anything else. He made it his goal to be the cockiest shit there ever was. He knew he could push it, and he was going to push it as far as he could. Especially when Coulson dropped him at his room and told him frankly, "Oh, and there's no smoking allowed." As soon as those words had left his mouth, Clint decided right then and there to make Agent Coulson's life a living hell.

He didn't want to be there. He didn't care for the alternative, but he felt cheated. He'd had no other decision. If they wanted him so badly, they could have all of him. Besides, all they wanted was his aim, right? But Coulson's voice never went away, and he kept hearing every night, "Now you can work for the good guys." It's what he wanted…wasn't it?

He didn't go to the classes, until an escort was assigned to follow him everywhere. So he sat in the classes, but he made it as difficult as he could. He goofed off on field training. He was going to pass all of his tests, because he could. But he was also going to be an ass about it – because, well, he could.

Then one day, Coulson was waiting for him outside the classroom.

"What?" Clint said, walking past. Coulson followed, matching his stride.

"Barton, I am now personally overseeing your training. Fury seems to think I'm the only one who can handle you."

Clint snorted. "Seriously? A pencil pusher? Can you even fire a gun?"

Clint heard a small sigh from beside him before he was suddenly grabbed from behind and pulled into a headlock. An arm pressed against his windpipe, and he struggled for several seconds before realizing struggling made it worse.

"Now, listen here, punk," Coulson hissed in his ear. "This attitude ends now. It ends, or you're back on death row. Clear?" Clint nodded, and Coulson released him, stepping back and straightening his suit. His expression gave nothing away.

Clint stepped away, his eyes wide. People had stopped in the hallways. Some just stared. Others sniggered.

"Off you go, Barton," Coulson said, and left.

Clint never mouthed off to Coulson again. He went to all of his classes, he passed all of his tests. The Director still disapproved of him. People whispered about Coulson, saying he'd gone soft, taking on a lost cause. Clint did his best to make those people look like assholes. He'd heard a few of the things Coulson had accomplished in his time at SHIELD. He was a top agent. So what was he doing coaching a fuck up like Barton?

He was the only man, after Barney and Buck, that Clint cared what they thought, who he wanted to impress.

He told himself that it was because he didn't want to go back to jail. Not because he wanted to do something _good_ and _honest_ for once in his life.

And certainly not because he thought maybe he'd found someone who actually gave a damn about him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Warnings:** Violence.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Avengers.

13.

_When Coulson had said he was overseeing training, Barton didn't know that meant 'slave driver'. _

_Sitwell, holding his morning coffee, stepped up next to Phil. He watched as Barton did suicide runs. _

"_Faster, Barton!" Coulson yelled. "My arthritic grandmother can run faster than that!"_

_Sitwell smothered a laugh at the filthy look Barton shot Coulson as he ran by._

_Sitwell turned to Phil. "You're running him pretty hard."_

"_Uh-huh," Phil answered, watching Barton closely._

"_He's that good, huh?"_

"_The best. He just needs the push." _

* * *

_SHIELD HQ_

"Barton," Fury barked as Barton dragged himself through the door. "You're late."

"Got caught in traffic, sir," Clint muttered as he dumped himself into his chair.

Coulson shot him a look. "You were in the gym." Clint grinned.

Fury glared at him. "This isn't a joke, Barton." He tossed a file at the younger man. "You're up."

Barton's eyes widened fractionally. This was to be his first mission. He'd been on several small reconnaissance missions in groups. He was still a rookie, though he longed for his own mission. "Solo?" he asked.

Fury nodded. "Abbas Ekshian." Clint flicked open the file to find a cold-eyed, thin-faced man staring back. "He has known ties to HYDRA, but he's mostly been inactive. We've been keeping an eye on him. Which is how it came across our radar that he's been making several purchases that are too shady for our liking. You are to observe and infiltrate the compound and bring back proof of his actions. Clear?"

"Yes, sir," he answered.

The Director nodded. "Wheels up in one hour." Barton nodded and left to pack. He realized that his and Phil's careers were riding on this. It was his chance to show all of SHIELD just what he was capable of, and to prove to Fury that he was the man for the job. And, he also realized, it was his chance to make Phil proud.

The small jet touched down on the outskirts of Siberia, making it a miserable hike to Clint's vantage point. He set up his site and gear and hunkered down to wait. For a full week he observed the comings and goings of the people.

On the fourth day, he told Coulson, "Seems like more people are arriving. More and more goons. Definitely hinky. Over."

"Copy that, Hawkeye. Keep monitoring the situation and keep me posted. Over."

"Roger that. Over and out."

On the seventh day, he had a very good picture of the movements and schedules, so he radioed Coulson and set out.

He timed his entry as the guards switched out, slipping in through a side door. SHIELD had a few rough sketches of the building floor plan that Barton had memorized. It wasn't completely accurate, and he hit a few dead ends before he found the room he was looking for.

Not a soul was in the office as he stepped inside. He quickly sat at the desk and rummaged through the files. When nothing jumped at him, he moved to the computer, plugging in the small device SHIELD had given him that would decrypt and copy all of the files. He waited impatiently for it to finish, constantly mindful of the footsteps walking past. There was a small beep, signalling the transfer was done, and Barton pocketed it.

And everything went to hell.

They caught him trying to leave. He learned later that one of the guards had the stomach flu and switched out early, another guard accompanying him to the infirmary. It turned out to be an unfortunate coincidence. He put up an impressive fight – even took out a few guards – but they got him in the end. The bullets they put in him sure helped a lot.

He slid in and out of consciousness for a bit. He heard them as they discovered his comm unit and smashed it. They dragged him to Ekshian and restrained him, which was all too amusing for Ekshian.

"Who do you work for?" Ekshian asked, fiddling with a knife in his hands. Clint stayed silent. None of his personal items were marked. If caught, SHIELD did not want to be traced. And Clint was not going to talk. He wondered just when he'd decided that he had become absolutely loyal to SHIELD.

Ekshian just smiled and shrugged. "Ah, well, I know who you are, and I shall tell the rest of the world. Լրտես. Լրտես." Then he leaned forward and carved it into Clint's chest. Clint passed out after the second letter.

He awoke to someone touching him and calling his name. He tried to lash out but found all his limbs just hurt _so much_. He opened bleary eyes, and it took him several moments for Phil's face to come into focus. Maybe Clint had really lost a lot of blood, because Coulson looked concerned.

"Sir?" he croaked.

"Hang in there, Clint. We're getting you of here." That's when he noticed the flurry of medical personnel and agents around him.

He frowned. "You came."

Phil smirked and gently touched his shoulder. "Where else would I be?" That concept was so foreign to Barton that he was speechless until they were on the helicopter. That's when he remembered the intel he was sent to gather.

He reached out and grabbed Phil's wrist. "The files –"

Phil shushed him with a gentle push back. "It's okay. SHIELD has the base. They'll find it."

Clint shook his head. "No. I got it."

"Where?"

"Give me a day or two and you can have it." His bloodied and bruised face split into a grin that Coulson couldn't help but imitate.

* * *

**A/N:** Next up...the Black Widow makes her next appearance.


	14. Chapter 14

**Warnings**: Strong language.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

14.

_Clint turned furiously to face her. His face was flushed and his eyes held the haunted look she was hoping she would never see again. "Nat," he began, and his tone nearly broke her heart. "You should have pulled the trigger," he whispered. "You should have pulled the fucking trigger."_

_It wasn't him talking, she told herself. It was the stress of the last mission. It wasn't him. But the words pulled her back to a time she wished she could forget. "You know I couldn't." She threw his own words back at him._

_For a moment she could see that had thrown him. One side of his mouth pulled up into a smile, and he repeated her own words, spoken so long ago: "That's because you're weak."_

"_Yes," she said plainly, softly. "You know that."_

* * *

_Prague_

It was the call Clint had been dreading for months. The order to terminate the Black Widow.

Something, he decided as the Director slapped the folder down in front of him, he could not do.

He had to use all of his strength to keep his facial muscles still as he stared down at her picture. She was just as he remembered her. Beautiful, seductive, the same empty look in her eyes. The same look he had before Coulson found him.

He didn't say anything to Coulson the whole ride there. He didn't know how his handler would take it. And he had to be able to talk to Natasha.

So he sulked the entire time and when he left the safe house for his post, he took a turn and headed back to the city.

Immediately, Coulson's voice sounded in his ear. "Hawkeye, you're going in the wrong direction. Report."

"Scenic detour."

"This is not the time. Divert to planned route."

Clint kept on his path. "Coulson, I'm sorry, but I'm going to do this a different way."

"Negative, Hawkeye – "

"I'm doing this my way. Don't worry, I'm just going to talk to her." Clint was aware he probably did not sound reassuring at all. Given Coulson's strained voice, he was correct.

"Talk? The parameters explicitly state no contact, and that's for good reason. Hawkeye, she is dangerous and –"

Clint cut him off. "She's not going to kill me, Phil. You guys really need to update your files." When he had no response, he added, "Trust me. You have to trust me. I have to do this."

"I'm probably going to regret this," Coulson grumbled.

"No," Clint mused. "I don't think you will."

After a few more blocks, he pulled up to one of their old haunts. Intel had said she would be elsewhere before her kill, but Barton knew better. He parked the car and entered the familiar atmosphere.

It only took seconds to spot her, all the way at the back, sitting in a darkened booth. She sat, facing everyone else, a slice of pie untouched in front of her. She visibly straightened as he approached.

He slid into the booth with a wide grin. "Hello, my dear."

She looked him up and down, trying but failing to hide her surprise. "I heard you went to prison," she said by way of hello.

"They let me out."

"You were on death row," she pointed out.

"Nice to see you've been keeping tabs on me." When she glared, he shrugged. "My record was expunged.

She gave a loud laugh. "I don't buy the shit you're selling, Barton."

He chuckled. "I'm serious." He leaned closer over the table. "I got a job offer."

She played with the label on her bottle. "So? What's special about this one?"

"No, no, no." He shook his head. "Nat, I got a _job_. A real one." When she narrowed her eyes, he said, "They pulled me from prison and gave me a job. They gave me a way out."

"You took it." It wasn't a question.

He lowered his voice, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. "You can too."

She snorted. "You always were a big dreamer, Barton, but this?" She gestured towards him. "This is outrageous, even for you."

"Nat, listen to me," he urged. "Remember when we said this was the only life for us? Remember that? Well, I found a new one. And you deserve the same."

He could see something change in her demeanor. She sat back, and her eyes grew from amused to sad and then to guarded. And that was the moment he knew he had her.

"Who?" she asked softly.

"SHIELD," he answered.

She huffed a laugh. "No way, Barton. I know who they are. I've tangled with them before. They don't want someone like me."

"I said the same," he admitted.

Natasha's gaze dropped back to her Vodka bottle, distracted.

"It won't be easy," he continued, "but it's worth it. But it's up to you." He stood from the seat and her eyes flicked up to watch him leave. "I'll be at Houston Motel until Thursday." Then he left the bar.

As soon as he'd left the bar, Coulson was shouting in his ear again. "Please don't tell me you offered her a position. Tell me I heard wrong."

"Relax, Phil. I could tell you were thinking about it."

"You can't just do that!" After his outburst, Phil grew quiet. "We'll discuss this when you get back."

The com fell silent and when Clint arrived back at the motel, he steeled himself.

Coulson stood in the doorway, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. "Barton," he said simply and Clint involuntarily flinched. Phil was _really_ mad when he spoke calmly and softly. "Are you in love with her? Is that it?"

Clint sighed, moving to take a seat in a chair. Coulson remained standing, keeping his glare fixed on his charge. "Well?" he prompted.

"Maybe, at one point," Clint conceded, "But that was long ago, Phil. This isn't about love. It's about doing the right thing. Something I haven't done until joining SHIELD. Something I've tried to make up for every day. We used to talk about getting out of this business."

Coulson rubbed his eyes. "And that's the other thing. How long have you known her? And why didn't you say anything?"

Clint shrugged. "Wasn't important at the time."

Phil shot him a look. "But you were planning this since you got the assignment."

"Well, I knew I couldn't kill her."

Some of the anger faded from Coulson's face and he grabbed a chair, sitting across from Clint. "You didn't tell her about the hit."

Clint shook his head. "She wouldn't come in if I told her."

"Clint, she's not going to do it."

"She will," he insisted, his eyes blazing with intensity. "Coulson, she never got to make her own decisions in life. So the key is to give her choices and let her decide. She _can't_ know about the hit."

Phil leaned back in his chair. "You're confident she'll come in."

"Yeah, she will." When Phil said nothing, Clint implored, "Please. You need to trust me on this. Let her in to SHIELD. You know she'll make a good asset. You _know_ that."

"What I think doesn't matter. Clint, you're forgetting about Fury."

"Then talk to him! You know he'll listen to you!"

Phil closed his eyes and sighed deeply. "Oh, Barton. You will be the death of me." He opened his eyes, and Clint could see he was completely serious. "Do you really trust her?"

Clint nodded once. "Yes. With my life. Which is hard to say of two assassins. She may not seem like it, but she'll be loyal. And she won't kill you in your sleep."

Coulson nodded after a long moment. "Okay," he said. "Okay." And just like that, it had been sealed. If Clint was sure about this, Phil would go to bat for him.

Clint slapped his hands on his thighs and rose to his feet. "Well then, I'm going for a shower. Let me know how it goes."

When he came back, Phil was just hanging up his phone. He turned to Clint. "Fury is furious, but he's agreed not to mention the hit to the Black Widow. In fact, it's being taken out of every mission file as we speak. You're on suspension, and I'm walking on thin ice. Happy?"

Clint grinned. "You won't be disappointed."

Two days later, the pair were preparing to leave and the Black Widow had yet to show. Clint still didn't doubt that she was coming, but he was starting to worry. So he grabbed his jacket and stepped onto the balcony.

His hands unconsciously dug through his pockets, looking for a cigarette. But he hadn't smoked in years. He made a conscious effort to slow his breathing and still his fingers, pushing the craving out of his mind.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned on the railing and watched the morning traffic. A flash of red caught his eye and he grinned when he saw Natasha, wrapped in a black coat and standing in the crowd, watching him. His grin only widened when she appeared unhappy she'd been caught spying. She remained where she was, however, so Clint decided she might need a little push.

He went back inside the motel and nodded to Phil. "She's here," he said before slipping out the front door. He made his way across the street and found her standing in the same spot.

"Took you long enough," Clint joked. "Get lost?"

Natasha pursed her lips, but didn't rebut the joke. That told Clint just how much she was thinking, and how hard this decision was for her. She wanted out of this life, but wanting and doing are very different things. The prospect that she _could_ get out was what scared her.

He touched her arm. "They're good people, Nat."

"There are no 'good people', Barton," she grumbled.

He shrugged. "They're not perfect, but they try. And that's more than I can say of most people." When her eyes wandered back to the motel, he tugged on her arm. "C'mon, let's meet my handler. He's overseeing this transition."

She raised an eyebrow and he chuckled. "What? You thought I was at the top of this chain?" He shook his head, then gestured for her to follow. She trailed a few steps behind him, obviously hesitant, until they reached the door to the motel, where she visibly straightened. When he stepped inside, she was right behind him.

Phil stood by the table. Clint stepped aside so Natasha was in full view. Phil stepped forwards, his hand outstretched and his face blank. "Miss Romanova," he said. "I'm Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD." She took his hand and nodded. "Clint tells me you have agreed to join us."

"Yes," she replied. "I would like to join SHIELD."

Phil nodded. "Very good. We'll make our way back to base shortly."

As the two agents packed up the rest of their things, Natasha remained standing stiffly in the corner, her knuckles white as she clenched the pockets of her jacket.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N**: A continued thanks to those who review/read! I love hearing from you. **Zaphael**: Glad you're enjoying! I could never see Natasha accepting Clint's pity in sparing her, so I came up with my own backstory for their relationship.

**Warnings**: Strong language.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

15.

"_You've heard what they say about them," the young agent behind the desk said, in a low voice, his eyes wide._

_Steve shook his head, a frown creasing his features. "Ah…no?"_

_The rookie cast a quick glance around before leaning forwards. "Hawkeye brought her in…without firing a _single_ shot." His eyebrows rose and disappeared into his hair. "The most dangerous and wanted criminal in several continents…I heard he's good with the ladies, but this?"_

* * *

_Prague_

The ride back to the jet was silent and tense. The jet ride back to the helicarrier was even more silent and tense. Natasha sat, stiff as a board, and didn't move. Her eyes continually darted back and forth. Her shoulders only lost some of their tension when Clint sat down next to her. They sat in the backseat of the car on the ride to the jet, which set Phil's teeth on edge, but he said nothing because he trusted Clint and his judgement. And the Black Widow, while she tried to hide it, was evidently frightened.

On the jet, Phil had the pilot and co-pilot take the plane back. He wanted Clint to be in the back with himself and the Black Widow for security. She hardly moved all the way there, except for several twitches of her hands.

When the jet landed on the helicarrier, Natasha immediately stiffened, but Clint touched her shoulder before standing. She, too, stood.

Phil cleared his throat. "Now, things might get intense. But please, ignore them and follow me. There will be the customary questions and medical exams." Natasha nodded once and the trio stepped out into the light.

People stared and whispered and pointed as they walked. All three ignored them. Natasha in particular, stepped away from Clint and kept her head held high. They moved into the bowels of the helicarrier, through darkened and winding hallways where the personnel thinned out. They came to a stop at a set of doors, with three people standing out front. Two were heavily armed and one was dressed in a black leather jacket and an eye patch. He stood with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

He nodded to Phil. "Agent Coulson." He scowled at Clint. "Barton."

"Director," Phil spoke up. "Miss Natasha Romanova, Black Widow."

The director turned his eye on Natasha. "Romanova," he said. "Coulson tells me you wish to join SHIELD."

Natasha's voice didn't waver. "Yes."

He eyed her for another long moment, then nodded to Coulson. "We'll begin with the medicals. You," he pointed to Phil and Clint, "in my office." His tone suggested painful consequences if they disobeyed.

Minutes later, they were sequestered in Fury's office, and the shouting began.

"What the hell, Barton? I sent you to kill her and then Coulson calls me saying you offered her a job? Did I promote you and I wasn't aware?"

Clint stared straight ahead, his gaze over the Director's shoulder, his stance military. "No sir, I made a different call."

"Oh, so now you have the authority to override my orders in the field?"

"Sir, I personally know Natasha, I knew I could get her to come in –"

Fury pounced on that. "You _knew_ her? _Natasha_? And when were you planning on sharing this?"

Clint let out a short breath. "Director, I knew that by telling her that we had a hit on her, we would never get her to come in. And I –"

"Couldn't pull the trigger," Fury finished for him.

Clint's face twitched. "One less bullet. One less death," he ground out.

Phil finally cut in. "Sir, this is my fault. I should have questioned –"

"Bull shit," Fury said. "I know Barton and the stunts he pulls. Don't take the fall for him." Fury paced away, turning his back on the two agents. It was several long moments before he spoke. "Coulson. Your take?"

"I trust Barton. And Romanova seems genuine. She's scared and looking for a way out."

Fury turned back, the scowl still in place. "_I_ don't trust Barton, but I trust your judgement. I'll examine her psych profile and decide then. For now, get out of my office. Barton, you are officially on a three week suspension. I don't want to see you in those three weeks. Dismissed."

Barton was sure Natasha heard the whispers. _He_ heard them; it wasn't as if anyone was quiet about it.

Fury had been true to his word. No one but Clint, Coulson, Hill, and the Director himself knew about the hit on the Black Widow. All anyone was aware of was that Clint had been sent to recruit the Black Widow and miraculously succeeded, without firing a single shot, as they said.

Clint heard from Phil that Natasha had passed her psych and medical evaluations. She only needed to be assessed for field work, but Clint knew she would pass that with flying colours.

He hadn't seen her since being suspended, but she managed to track him down while he was in the archery range. She slipped in, un-escorted, and he wondered if they trusted her enough yet or she'd simply slipped her guard.

He turned to her and nodded, letting off his shot without turning back. Unsurprisingly, it hit the bulls eye.

She smirked. "Haven't seen you. Where you been?"

"I got suspended for three weeks."

"Oh?"

"Pulled some stupid shit in the field." He fired off three successive shots at lightning speed, then turned back to her.

"Why am I not surprised?"

He chuckled. "They stop eating you alive?"

She crossed her arms. "No, but I'm used to it. You know I've been through worse."

He huffed in response and retrieved his arrows. "When do you have a free moment?"

She cocked her head and smiled. "Pie?"

"S'not as good as Sam's, but it'll do."

"Alright. I have a tactical test tonight, followed by interrogation. I finish at seven."

He grinned. "See you in the cafeteria."

She was waiting for him at a secluded corner, already eating her pie.

He slid into the seat across from her. "Heard you passed."

"Of course I did," she responded, sounding hurt.

"I also heard you made Agent Donner cry."

She pulled a face. "He was weak. I can't believe they chose him for a suspect."

"I believe you said, if my sources are correct: 'Shut the fuck up, and man up'?" He tried and failed to supress a grin.

She shrugged. "It worked."

"Mhm."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N**: Thanks again to all of those who continue to read/review!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Avengers.

16.

"_Don't worry about it, Bruce," Clint said as he sat across from the fidgety scientist. "Trust me, he's not coming back._

_Banner frowned. "How do you think you can get rid of an army general, hell-bent on revenge?" _

_Clint shrugged, just as Natasha was walking into the room, a furious gleam in her eyes. "Eh, I just left him something." _

_Natasha stopped directly in front of Clint, scowl in place and her arms crossed. The rest of the team took an involuntary step back, not wanting to get in the middle of the impending fight. "Please tell me you didn't," she said dangerously._

_Clint blinked innocently back at her. "Didn't what?"_

_She scowled. "You did. You left him an arrow." _

_Clint grinned. "Damn right I did. You can't have a rational conversation with the man, so I gave him some incentive." _

"_Christ Clint, do you even think about things first? What is Fury going to think?"_

_He shrugged. "Ross is a pest. Fury will thank me." _

_Steve frowned, looking between all of the others, searching for an answer. "Am I missing something?"_

* * *

_SHIELD HQ_

Clint and Natasha were sparring in one of the gyms at SHIELD when Phil approached them. Not many people dared to get close to the two spies when they were working out. It always got intense and the violent dance scared most of the agents.

Natasha had been cleared for field work just three days prior, though she was on probation indefinitely. Nothing had been given to her yet, but she was patient. Clint knew Fury was dying to try out his latest asset, but he was hard-pressed to find a handler that was willing to take on Natasha. Along with her transition, Natasha had requested her name change from Romanova to Romanoff, but to keep her alias as the Black Widow. She said she'd already made a name for herself, so why start over?

Phil cleared his throat and the pair paused, Natasha's legs wrapped dangerously around Clint's throat, and Clint's arm holding her in a headlock. "A moment?" Coulson asked pleasantly.

"I win that one," Natasha remarked as they detangled.

Clint laughed. "I hardly think so."

Natasha opened her mouth to argue but Phil cut in. "Barton. Romanoff. I have a mission."

They both froze, surprised looks on their faces.

"Both of us?" Clint asked. "The same mission?"

"Yes," Phil answered. "I am now Miss Romanoff's handler."

Natasha straightened. "How?" She asked. "You are Clint's handler."

"Fury has tasked you to me. He feels you and Barton will work well together. And he says that if I can handle Clint, I can handle Romanoff."

Natasha and Clint traded glances. "Phil," Clint protested. "We're both solo agents."

"Yes, and you are also now partners."

Natasha regarded him coldly. "Babysitting me."

"Yeah," Phil answered.

Natasha scowled.

"We'll discuss the parameters in my office." He led the two out of the gym and to his office, where he pulled out a file.

Clint picked it up. "A protection detail?" he asked incredulously. "That's for newbies!"

"Yes, and you are new partners," Coulson answered calmly, shuffling through papers on his desk. Phil held a hand up, interrupting Clint's protests without even looking up. "Fury is testing you both out. Take the mission, complete it successfully, and we'll have no more problems." He looked up. "Understood?"

Clint nodded stiffly. "Yeah." Then he turned and left, Natasha on his heels.

When they were far enough down the hall, Natasha scoffed. "I don't believe this. It's an insult."

Clint stopped, sighed, and turned to her. "No, Phil's right. We need to take this one seriously."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Fury knows what he's doing. And we can trust Phil," he told her. She watched him closely for a minute before turning and heading back to her room.

Two hours later, they were prepped and ready to go. The mission was performed seamlessly and the degree of their missions steadily increased in difficulty, until they were the ones called in to do the 'impossible'. They found that they were able to work in tandem, and their ability to work and communicate became legendary. Their ability to complete the near impossible also became legendary. The names Black Widow and Hawkeye were always said together. And Clint saw, over time, Natasha seemed to take what he said to heart. It took a long time, but she eventually let Phil in.

Phil was patient, and he was rewarded for it. A word here, a sentence there, or just when Natasha would stick around Phil's office, even when Clint wasn't there. Phil never said anything, even pretended that he never even noticed, but he would allow a small smile when he was tucked behind his computer monitor.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Continued thanks to my lovely readers! Sadly, we are approaching the end of this journey. One more to follow this.

**Warnings**: Strong language.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Avengers.

17.

_Agent Romanoff, Banner had noticed, was always on edge. She wasn't nervous from being around him, but she was anxious. When she threw another glance at the monitor running the facial recognition scans, he realized why. _

"_Are you and Agent Barton, ah, close?" he asked timidly. It really wasn't his place, and with the look she shot him, he really wished he'd kept his mouth shut. He muttered a 'sorry' and buried his face in his work. _

_When she spoke up, softly, he nearly jumped. "I've known Clint a very long time," she said. He looked back up. "We've known each other since before SHIELD. He gave me a chance when I really didn't deserve it. I owe him a debt, so you need to find him." _

_He nodded quickly, unnerved at the intensity in her voice. "I'll do everything I can." _

_She nodded sharply and left the room, leaving him to wonder exactly what made her reveal herself to him, and just exactly what it was she'd told him. _

* * *

_SHIELD HQ_

Natasha slid in front of the computer and shook the mouse to wake it. She let out a sigh and placed her steaming mug on the desk before she typed her login and password and opened the directory. She searched her target's name and sat back, waiting for her results. She was preparing for a solo mission, one that required her for several months deep undercover.

As she watched the results slowly filter, something caught her eye. She frowned and paused the search, scanning frantically for what it was she'd seen. At last, she found it, an old entry titled simply: Massacre in Saul Paulo. Normally, she wouldn't be so interested, but she'd been there around the same time as the entry was made, and there was an awful feeling in her gut.

She double-clicked on the entry and an error window appeared. Frowning at the message that told her she didn't have the required security access, she tried again. She had been given full clearance nearly a year prior. She was one of the top agents at SHIELD. There was no reason she shouldn't be able to view the entries.

Several more clicks brought her no further. She scowled and called upon all of her old hacking skills she had picked up over the years. She wasn't a master hacker, but she felt she could handle this easily.

She tried going through the back door, which brought her a little farther. From there, with her security clearance, she piggy-backed on some poor agent's account and accessed a cache of files that had strings of letters and numbers as titles. To her, these were odd, as they had no distinctive title. She opened them.

She reeled back from the screen as if it had physically burned her. She couldn't believe the words that appeared on the screen: MISSION: TERMINATION OF BLACK WIDOW. STATUS: FAILURE. Her eyes quickly scanned the rest. Words like 'Barton' and 'Prague' and 'orders' jumped at her but she'd already seen enough.

She found Clint in the archery range, as she knew he would be. He looked up as she approached, and he smiled. "Hey, Nat. I-"

She cut him off. "You bastard!" she snarled, and struck out with her fist.

He managed to dodge the punch, but surprise was clear across his features. "Hey! What –" he was cut off as she continued her assault with several more punches and kicks. "Nat! Nat!" He cried, snatching her wrist. "What the hell!"

Her eyes were bright with hatred as she pulled away and stared at him. "You lied. It was all a damn lie!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Me!" She cried. "You had kill orders on me and you told me they wanted me!"

Barton felt his stomach drop. He could see in her eyes how betrayed she felt. "You wouldn't have come in if I'd told you the truth."

"Damn right I wouldn't!" She shrieked, pulling at her hair. "You should have pulled the trigger, Clint. You should have pulled the fucking trigger."

A sudden anger swept through him. "I couldn't!" He shouted back. "You know I couldn't!"

"That's because you're weak!"

"Yeah? Then you'd be dead. _Dead_, Natasha!"

"Maybe that would have been for the best!" she yelled, and the pair fell to sudden silence, breathing heavily.

Natasha brushed her hair back with a quick hand, cast him one more betrayed look, and left. When she was gone, Clint let out a deep breath, pressed his palms to the table, and hung his head.

Everything he had worked so hard for had just backfired on him.

It was a long five months while Natasha was gone, and everyday Clint wondered if she would actually come back.

She did, with her culprit in tow. Clint was in the gym doing push ups when she slowly approached him.

He paused and watched her tentatively approach. She was never one to be tentative, but he could read the hesitation in her every step.

"He was selling girls," she said, her voice strong and clear. "No older than twelve."

Clint nodded, but said nothing.

"I got him. He can't do it ever again."

"No, he can't," he replied, moving to a seated position. Natasha was a hard one to read, but Clint had figured it out fast enough; they were just too alike. He knew those months away had been good for her. She had found a purpose in her life – which was his intention from the start.

She gestured to the mat at the other end of the gym. "Need a partner?"

Clint grinned and stood. "Yeah." He knew she didn't just mean a sparring partner. It was the closest to an apology he was ever going to get.

"Good, because I haven't had a proper fight in ages, and I'm ready to kick your ass."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** This is it, the last chapter! A huge thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. I always enjoy reading your comments. I am hoping to be back in this fandom - I have a few ideas bouncing around, and one is a continuation of this story, set after the movie. Hope to see you around!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Avengers.

18.

_Clint groaned and panted as he jumped from roof to roof, slipping and losing his feet occasionally. He held a hand tightly to his side in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but by the lightness in his head, he knew he wasn't doing a very good job. _

_He skidded to a stop on the edge of the skyscraper, and squinted through the driving rain. His eyes never left the helicopter as he reached and nocked an arrow. _

"_Hawkeye," Rogers shouted. "Are you sure you can make the hit?" He knew the agent was injured and that the conditions were less than ideal._

_Clint stifled a groan as he pulled back on the bowstring. "Cap," he said and then aimed, exhaled and released. The helicopter exploded in frenzy of flames and Clint let out a small breath. "I never miss." _

* * *

_SHIELD HQ_

"Barton, Romanoff," Fury greeted as Clint and Natasha entered his office.

"Sir," Barton responded, then nodded to Rogers who was also in the office. "Captain."

"Agent Barton," Steve greeted. "Agent Romanoff."

It was only a few weeks after the battle of New York, and Clint looked like he'd gone through hell and back seven times. His hair had grown a little longer and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. Natasha looked no different, Steve noted, but then again, her tells were not as obvious as Barton's.

Fury leaned back in his seat. "I have asked you here, because I have received a request from Captain Rogers regarding the Avengers Initiative. Because of the success three weeks ago, the Council has decided to pursue the Initiative, with Rogers leading. The other members are still to be decided, but I am asking you; Barton and Romanoff, to join."

Clint stared at the director, slack-jawed. "The Avengers? Is this some sort of joke?"

"No joke, Barton."

Clint looked at Natasha, but she shook her head, indicating she did not know of this.

Natasha spoke up. "Director, I was not aware that we were being considered as recruits."

"No, Agent, initially the plan was to recruit the world's superheroes to unite against the enemies of earth, but it has been brought to my attention that the two of you are excellent candidates. And I agree."

"Sir," Natasha began, "I don't think –"

"I won't do it," Barton interrupted, his tone deadly and low. "They don't need me, and if you think I'm going to be paraded around as a hero than you have another think coming. Whose stupid idea was this anyway?"

Fury paused a moment. "Coulson's."

The air around them turned icy in seconds.

"Don't," Clint growled, getting in Fury's face. "Don't even."

"Barton," Fury snapped, leaning into the stare, not at all intimidated by the archer. "If you think this is only about magic and super powers, you are dead wrong. Phil's death was not your fault. Ten years ago, Coulson convinced me your ass was worth saving, that you could be a good asset. Three months ago, Coulson said to me that he thought the two of you would be good for the program. And I believed him."

Natasha voiced Barton's exact thoughts. "We are not superheroes, Director. We are not what children should look up to."

"There is no way I can stand next to him," Barton said, jerking a finger in a surprised Steve's direction.

Fury sighed deeply. "The two of you would retain your positions here at SHEILD. You will remain as covert operatives. You will not be known to the public as members of the Avengers. Public relations will be handled by Captain Rogers, and your identities will be kept secret from the world. But it is your choice."

Clint and Natasha shared a long look. "I think," Natasha said, "that we need to talk this over."

Fury nodded, and the pair of assassins left the room.

Steve ran into Natasha a few days after he'd received a call from Fury, stating that Barton and Romanoff had agreed to the Avengers Initiative.

"Agent Romanoff," he called to her, and she turned around in the hallway.

"Captain Rogers," she smiled.

"Uh, please, Steve."

"Natasha."

Steve shifted awkwardly for a moment. "Fury told me that you and Agent Barton have agreed to join the Avengers. I think that this will work."

Natasha tilted her head. "The Initiative is ambitious and potentially explosive, but it has merit," she said candidly.

Steve coughed. "Yes, well, about that. Uh – do you think that Agent Barton and I are going to – um, be problematic?"

Natasha sighed. "Clint can be an ass sometimes, and he may have a problem with authority, but he respects you."

A baffled look crossed his face. "Really? The impression I got in Fury's office…"

Natasha waved her hand dismissively. "That wasn't about you. It was about him." When Steve still looked skeptical, she continued, "What he meant was that you are the epitome of good. You are pure as snow, Rogers. Clint and I – we are not. And next to you, we fall so low in comparison. Clint doesn't want to taint you with his darkness."

Steve frowned. "Oh, I don't think – "

Natasha cut him off with a shake of her head. "No, you don't get it. Clint and I, we are not good people. We are _not_," she repeated emphatically, looking away from Steve's sad eyes. "A long time ago, we sold our soul to the devil. Our past is littered with bodies and blood and nothing can ever change that. We try, but you can't change the past."

"I –well, I don't quite understand," Steve fumbled, "but I think I can try."

She smiled grimly. "That's all any of us can do."


End file.
